When a Storm Comes
by flippin'flapjacks25
Summary: Americus Nation, four years old, is awoken by a storm raging outside her window. Afraid and alone, she randomly dials a number on her phone and unexpectedly calls up Willy Jack. As the two talk, both come to an understanding about dreams, past, and the hardships of everyday people. One-shot. T for language.


Lightning split across the velvety night sky, dancing across the horizon in crackling, violet bolts. As thunder fiercely shook the ground, jiggling the coins at the bottom of her porcelain piggy bank, Americus Nation drew the covers over her head. Beneath her quilted sanctuary, her breath prattled and heaved, and her heart beat at an accelerated rate. Storms always set her nerves on edge, made her wary of hail stones, falling trees and power lines, and worst of all - tornadoes. Ever since her Grandma Husband had died the previous year in the worst tornado Sequoyah, Oklahoma had seen in over a decade, every breath of wind initiated her fear of a spiraling funnel carrying her off and stirring around with broken bits of debris.

Normally, though, Americus' mother, Novalee, would be there to chase away that lingering cloud of fear with warm, loving embraces and wet kisses. But, this evening, at a quarter past eleven, she had finally stumbled in through the door after an excruciating eighteen-hours spent driving clear across Oklahoma to film a Bar Mitzvah, beaten down, and collapsed on the sofa. All the well knowing her mother needed the rest, it made Americus reluctant on rousing her, especially with another early shoot racked up for tomorrow. So now, Americus examined the clock on her bedside table, the one with the cat whiskers for hands that she had bought at the Ortiz' garage sale for a dollar and seven cents. Rain pelted the roof, falling into a steady rhythm with the ticking. Yet, with the constant, clamorous claps of thunder, it still wasn't enough to establish her sense of security.

Americus needed human contact to ease her uncertainty. Unfortunately, no one was available to provide her with the menial desire. Her gaze swooping across her vacant bedroom, dimly lit by the luminescent street light, her eyes fell upon a black land line tucked behind masterpieces of finger art painted with her own hand. Curious, Americus climbed out of bed, crossed the room, picked up the receiver, and fiddled with black buttons, giggling at their mechanical beeping. Of course, she knew how to use a phone. Brownie had shown her how to use the said device once one lazy summer afternoon Lexi had run out to Sears for a few errands. Though Novalee was not aware of Americus' acquired skill, Americus would sometimes play around with the phone on those boring, unbroken moments, amused by the people who picked up, retail sales people, bitter old men, and the occasional Chinese restaurant. And like her very next door neighbors, the people on the other end of the receiver were human too; they had ears to listen with.

Sucking in a daring breath, Americus dialed the numbers, heedless of their order, their pattern, and tapped her foot timidly as the phone rang... once...twice...three times.

Willy Jack Pickens, known as the dashing Billy Shadow to his admiring fans, downed another shot of Wild Turkey. Needless to say, the night had been a wild one. After being graced with three woolly women, clad in tight spandex and skimpy thongs after his encore performance at Barack's Bunker in Columbus, Ohio, nothing hit the spot like the raw burn of liquor in the back of his throat. But as he was pouring himself another generous shot, he was startled by the boisterous ringing of the hotel phone. Fuming at the spilled whiskey on his shirt, Willy Jack stumbled over to the phone, tripping over disarrayed articles of clothing on the floor, cursing under his breath, before ripping the receiver to his ear.

"Hello?" Willy Jack asked impatiently, his voice thick with the slur of Wild Turkey.

For a few moments, there was no response, only the crackling whisper of static. Then, there came a soft, hesitant, "Hi."

"Who is this?" Willy Jack demanded. "And what the hell do you want?"

"Americus," a small voice replied, "Americus Nation. I'm four."

Something about that name roused a memory within Willy Jack, reminding him of a distorted face, something that had once been his but had long been abandoned. "Okay Americus, what is it that you want?"

A long pause: "Someone to talk to."

Out of all the things Willy Jack had heard over a land line, from local basketball leagues rattling the chains in hopes of donations, to old women screaming at him to repent his sins or perish in Hell, Wily Jack had never received the request to talk, especially from a child not even graduated from nursery school. Astonished, he stuttered for the right words. "Oh... alright, I guess. But make it quick."

"But you haven't told me your name yet."

Exhaling sharply in frustration, he blurted out before he could stop himself, "Willy Jack Pickens." The moment the words had escaped his lips Willy Jack regretted them. What if this was some crazy fan who was just hoping to get under his skin? His mind instantly flashed back to that pregnant teenager, that trucker's daughter, who had pointed him out as the father, though he had never seen her before in his life. Father or not, that still didn't prevent his trip to the ER.

"It's nice to meet you, Willy Jack," Americus giggled. "Well, I can't really see you."

At that moment, Willy Jack's bottled temper finally shattered. "Dammit, kid, what is that you called for? Shouldn't you be asleep or something?"

Dropping her voice to a whisper, Americus replied, "I was, but the storm woke me up."

"Scared of a little lightning and thunder, are you?" Willy Jack chortled.

"My Grandma Husband died in a big, bad storm. A tornado. They found her squashed like a bug under a trailer. But its okay because Mommy says she's in heaven now and the Lord is taking care of her. So she's safe."

Willy Jack should've slammed the phone down. Hang up on this nut-job for his own good, but instead he found himself being pulled in by her voice, gentle soprano that danced in his head like the sweet strumming of his guitar. Her voice was pure, clean, unlike the women he often picked up with their low, scratched voices hissing that they wanted him.

"My old man died by electrical shock. Stupid, drunk bastard. Came too close to that power line." Willy Jack shook his head.

Again, came her soft voice, "Willy Jack, I'm sorry about your daddy. I never had one."

"Oh yeah, what happened to him?"

"Mommy told me he left us, decided we weren't good enough for him so he threw us out of his life like garbage. But she says that actually he wasn't good enough for us."

Willy Jack ran a hand through his hair thoughtfully. "Well, obviously you don't need a man like that. Anyone who would bail out on their own family like that belongs in Hell. And Americus Nation, a sweet girl like you deserves a good daddy, one who will be there, clap at your graduation, cough up the money for a princess cake with pink icing on your birthday."

There was giggling on the other end for a few moments. "Thank you, Willy Jack." But halfway through her words, Americus released a long, tired yawn.

"Is that storm finally letting up?"

"Yep." Her reply was broken by another yawn.

Willy Jack was smiling. It had first started out small, barely there in the folded corners of his mouth, but now it stretched across his entire face. "Alright, darling, I think it's about time you got back to sleep."

Following his orders, the blankets rustled as Americus clambered back into bed and snugly tucked herself in. But, as she began to drift off, she made one last request. "Willy Jack, will you sing to me?"

Without an ounce of hesitation, Willy Jack pulled his guitar out of its case and began to strum out the tune of "Beat of a Heart." And as he played, he thought of his own dreams his own past, and a pregnant seventeen-year-old girl he had left at Walmart four years ago. Novalee Nation.


End file.
